Aldron pitched the tent beside a tree and per Trevanion’s instructions, he shackled Rafuel securely. Tesadora and the girls walked over, and Aldron asked for the chronicle Tesadora held. He leafed through it.
“Two hundred and forty-seven of them?” he asked. “There are more Charynites in the valley than Monts on the mountain.”
“We would have more Monts on the mountain if you two would return to your homes,” Lucian told his cousins Constance and Sandrine, who had been living in the valley for two weeks now with Tesadora. They gave Lucian a look that would curdle milk and he thought it best not to say another word to them.
“Is the queen going to set him free?” Sandrine asked, study ing their Charynite prisoner carefully. “They are a puny lot, aren’t they?”
“Despite it all, they are quite pleasing to the eye,” Constance added. Tesadora gave them both a scathing look.
“Yes, well it’s a pity you weren’t introduced to some of the Charynite soldiers during our ten-year imprisonment,” she said, her tone acid. “I doubt any of the girls were cooing at how pleasing to the eye the enemy was when they were forced into their beds.”
The girls looked away, horrified and ashamed. “We meant no offense, Tesadora,” Sandrine said.
Tesadora gave the Mont girls a meaningful look, flicking her eyes toward Japhra before picking up the pots and walking away toward the stream. Lucian looked over to where Japhra was staring at Rafuel. Lucian knew little of her story except that she had been dragged to the palace by the impostor king when she was twelve. Years later, Lady Beatriss had managed to smuggle her out of the palace and they traveled for days across Lumatere until they reached Tesadora and her hidden cloister at the Sendecane border. The girl was said to be damaged, but she had a fierce attachment to Tesadora and a talent for healing more powerful than Lucian had ever seen. When her eyes looked past Lucian to their prisoner, he noticed that Rafuel was returning her gaze, and suddenly a rage came over Lucian. The rule was never to forget who the enemy was, and there had been times these past weeks when Lucian had forgotten. But not today. He grabbed Rafuel by his hair, pulling his head back. “You don’t look at our women,” he hissed. “You don’t talk to them. You don’t touch them. Is that clear?”
Rafuel didn’t respond, and Lucian saw sorrow in his expression.
“Lucian. Aldron.”
Tesadora came running out from the trees that concealed the other side of the stream.
“Riders,” she said when she reached them. “Coming from the direction of Alonso.”
Lucian and Aldron crept toward the stream, the waterberry tree keeping them hidden. Across the stream, Lucian could see the cave dwellers standing, ten or so horsemen riding toward them.
“King’s men?” Tesadora asked.
Aldron shook his head. “From how we hear it through the Belegonians, there is no king of Charyn.”
“No king?” Lucian asked. “When?”
“Perhaps a week or two ago.”
“Where’s Froi, then?” he demanded. “If he succeeded, he should be home by now.”
Aldron shook his head. “There’s too much uncertainty about who actually assassinated the king. Some are saying he died at the hands of his First Adviser.”
Lucian turned back to where Rafuel was chained to the tree and crept beside him.
“Your king is dead, Rafuel. Approaching now are men with no uniforms, but they ride with great authority.”
Hope blazed in Rafuel’s eyes. He leaped to his feet before collapsing under the weight of the chains. He strained to look through the trees across the stream.
“Perhaps Zabat has returned with Froi,” Rafuel said. “Unshackle me and I can see for myself.”
Lucian looked at the shackles and then at the prisoner.
“If you run, Charynite, I will kill you,” he warned, reluctantly unlocking the chains. “If I don’t kill you, which is highly unlikely, then Aldron will kill you. Aldron is the queen’s bodyguard, so you can imagine his aim is almost as good as mine.”
The moment the chains were off, both Lucian and Rafuel wormed their way to the stream, beside Tesadora and Aldron, who had crept closer to see what lay through the reeds.
“I never doubted the lad would succeed,” Rafuel said with a chuckle.
“From the way we hear it, the king’s First Man was the assassin,” Lucian said.
Rafuel turned to him in disbelief. “You mean the king’s adviser, Bestiano? It doesn’t make sense.”
“So who’s in charge if the king is dead?” Tesadora asked Rafuel in Charyn.
Lucian noticed that her language skills had improved since the Charynites had first arrived.
“The son of the king’s first cousin,” Rafuel said. “Tariq. His father died of a mysterious illness in the palace three years ago, and Tariq’s mother’s people managed to have the lad smuggled out. If he sits on the throne, the priests will be happy, the provincari will be happy, and Charyn will be happy. Royal blood without the insanity. Nothing like it to make a Charynite dance with joy.”
“One can understand why,” Lucian murmured.
“But it has been foretold that the last will make the first and the Princess Quintana will produce a male child by the time she comes of age to be both a curse breaker and heir. All we will need is an honorable man, unaligned to the provinces, to act as regent to the boy until he comes of age. If that does not come to pass, we will be happy for Tariq to take the throne and for the priests to come out of hiding and find a better way to break the curse than turning our women into whores.”
“But if a son comes from the princess, wouldn’t your people despise his tainted blood?” Lucian asked.
Rafuel turned to Tesadora. “What do you believe? That one is born evil or raised evil?”
“Why ask me?” she snapped.
Rafuel shrugged. “Because you seem the type to have an opinion about such things.”
She looked away. “No child is born evil,” she said quietly.
“And I’m presuming that you and your men know exactly who the honorable regent to the heir will be?” Lucian asked.
Rafuel nodded, grinning, trying to make himself comfortable. “We do indeed. He has a fiercely smart mind and is the fairest of men. All he needs is convincing that his place is in the palace.”
“And does this paragon of virtue have a name?” Lucian asked.
“He exists. That’s all you need to know.”
Rafuel nudged Lucian, and the idiot Charynite’s good humor was contagious. “Be reassured, Mont, tonight you travel to the capital with our lad.”
“Our lad?” Lucian asked. “Froi’s ours, Charynite.”
But Lucian grinned all the same and even Tesadora seemed happy at the news. He hadn’t realized how much he missed Froi’s visits up to the mountain. The boy had worked harder than any other these past three years, perhaps because he had the strongest wish for the queen’s goodwill. Lucian imagined Isaboe and Finnikin’s joy as Froi rode into the palace village. Trevanion and Perri and the rest of the Guard would drag him away to find out what they could about the death of the Charynite king, but Lucian knew that deep down everyone would be relieved that Froi was returning home unharmed.
“There are my lads,” Rafuel said, excitement in his voice. The seven men stood huddled together.
“I can’t see Froi with the riders,” Tesadora said as the horsemen came closer. She snaked through the reeds, within a breath of the stream.
“Come back, Tesadora,” Aldron whispered.
The closer the horsemen rode, the more silent the valley dwellers became. From his vantage point, Lucian could see it in the way Kasabian and Cora and Rafuel’s men and everyone else stood, their bodies rigid.
“Do you recognize any of the riders, Rafuel?” Lucian whispered.
Rafuel did not respond. Closer and closer came the men, and Lucian feared they’d cross the stream. The order was that if any Charynite other than Phaedra crossed the stream, the Monts would see it
as an attack on Lumatere.
“Rafuel?” Tesadora whispered.
The prisoner’s silence made Lucian uncomfortable. He could see by the expression on Rafuel’s face that he recognized no one among the newcomers.
There were twelve men in total. They dismounted, and in the eerie silence that followed, Lucian watched them shove through the camp dwellers.
“They’re searching for someone,” Lucian whispered.
Rafuel shook his head slowly. “I don’t recognize them, but they’re certainly not palace riders, so we have nothing to fear.”
“Then who could they be?” Lucian asked.
Rafuel shrugged. “The priests have spies in places that I don’t even know. We had one or two inside Lumatere for the first year.”
“What?”
“Rest assured,” Rafuel said, “the hidden priests of Charyn and the army they have built for Tariq will never be a threat to you.” But his voice had lost its humor. It was laced with fear. Rafuel’s eyes fixed on the horsemen as they began to surround his men.
“Oh, gods,” Rafuel said, his voice anguished.
“What?” Lucian asked.
“They’re here for my lads.”
Aldron motioned them to silence. They watched as the leader of the horsemen paced the path before the camp dwellers, the sword in his hand pointed back at Rafuel’s men.
“We’re searching for a man named Rafuel of Sebastabol,” he called out. “The leader of the seven traitors who planned the murder of our king.”
Rafuel was muttering. Praying. From where Lucian lay, he could see that Rafuel’s men were doing the same while the camp dwellers stared at the seven men, confused. Rafuel’s lads had only made themselves known these last weeks. Tesadora had said there was talk among them all that a Charynite had taken a dagger to Japhra, but the camp dwellers had no idea who and they especially never suspected he belonged to the quiet seven, who were all scholars and kept to themselves.
“I repeat, we’re searching for Rafuel of Sebastabol.” The voice of the horseman was coarse and ugly, and its threat chilled Lucian to the bone.
The man’s hand suddenly snaked out into the crowd and grabbed Kasabian by the neck, shoved him down to his knees, and stood behind him with a sword across his throat. Cora cried out.
“Stay back, Cora. Stay back,” Kasabian instructed his sister.
Lucian elbowed Aldron, staring at him helplessly. Aldron shook his head bitterly. “This is not our fight, Lucian,” he whispered.
“They’re going to kill an innocent man,” Lucian said.
“This is not our fight, I say.”
Rafuel suddenly stumbled to his feet.
“I’m Rafuel of Sebastabol.”
Yet it wasn’t Rafuel’s voice that rang out, but one from across the stream. Both Aldron and Lucian dragged Rafuel down before he could be seen.
“No,” Rafuel whispered in horror. “No, Rothen.”
Lucian discovered later that the young man was a scholar from the province of Paladozza. He was of Rafuel’s age, with a dark trimmed beard and a shaggy head of dark curls. Lucian had watched him speak to Phaedra this last week. Instead of cowering, she had been animated. It had angered Lucian for some reason. The leader of the horsemen looked back to where Rothen stood with his hand raised. Kasabian was shoved aside as the leader walked back to Rafuel’s seven men and grabbed Rothen, dragging him to the stream, forcing him to his knees.
“If you are to arrest us for treason,” they heard another of Rafuel’s men say with great urgency, “then you try us in a court of Charyn law, by the seneschal of the Citavita. That’s the law.”
The leader of the horsemen stared back at the speaker. Every one watched in terrified silence.
“And who are you?” the horseman asked pleasantly.
“My name is Asher of Nebia,” the man said, and Lucian could hear the tremble of fear in his voice.
The leader shoved Rothen away and walked toward Asher of Nebia.
Lucian heard Rafuel’s sigh of relief.
“Smart man, Asher,” Rafuel whispered.
“Asher of Nebia,” the horseman said. “My name is Donashe of the Citavita, and let me tell you this, friend. There is no seneschal of the Citavita. The Citavita is dead. The king is dead. So when my men and I came across the king’s riders pledging to pay ten pieces of gold for the body of every traitor responsible, then that’s the only law I care to follow. And if they promised me twice that amount for the head of Rafuel of Sebastabol, then who am I to say no?”
In an instant, he grabbed Asher by the hood of his robe and dragged him to the stream amid the screams and shouts from those around them. With both hands, Donashe of the Citavita forced Asher’s head into the stream while the scholar’s body thrashed violently.
Lucian heard a cry behind him and turned back to the novices and the Mont girls, who were clutching each other in terror.
“Up the mountain,” he hissed to them. “Now. No horses. Run and don’t let them see you!”
When he turned back, Asher’s body lay still in the stream. Donashe of the Citavita stepped back and held up a finger.
“One,” the Charynite announced. “According to our source, there are six more led by Rafuel of Sebastabol.”
Rafuel tried to raise himself again, struggling as Aldron pinned him down, and Lucian kept a hand to his mouth.
“You’ll get us all killed,” Lucian whispered. “Our women, too. Is that what you want?”
Only then did Rafuel stop, and when both Aldron and Lucian were certain their prisoner would not try to surrender himself again, they let go of their hold and continued their blood- chilling vigil.
Lucian could see Kasabian through the reeds, and he knew from the quick flicker of his gaze across the stream that Kasabian could see them. Although not the oldest of the camp dwellers, the man was a quiet leader of sorts and had made a point of becoming acquainted with all the camp dwellers. Lucian’s heart sank. Did the man expect him to act on their behalf or stay hidden?
“So let me ask again.” Donashe’s voice rang across the valley camp. “Where is Rafuel of Sebastabol?”
“I am Rafuel of Sebastabol,” Rothen said. “Take me and get your gold. The rest of these men are priestlings. Not traitors. These people are landless. They care not for the politics of their kingdom. They want a scrap of dirt to call their own!”
Donashe of the Citavita grabbed Rothen’s face and stared at it long and hard. “I think you’re lying, friend. You’re not fair enough to be from Sebastabol. I think you’re hiding your leader somewhere in this camp.”
“There were eight of us,” Rothen said. “One took a dagger to a Lumateran woman’s throat and was banished by the leader of their Monts. His name was Rothen, and he’s halfway to Desantos by now.”
Donashe shoved Rothen away and grabbed another one of the men, slight in build and the youngest by far.
“Faroux of Paladozza,” Rafuel choked out hoarsely as the Charynite horsemen sliced the lad from ear to ear. “Let me stop this, Lucian. Please. I beg of you.”
It took Aldron and Tesadora’s help to hold Rafuel down. For one so slight, he fought like a demon, weeping with silent despair. Lucian had seen his father die before his eyes, but he couldn’t think of anything worse than seeing Finnikin or Froi or his Mont cousins being slaughtered while he stood and did nothing.
Later, when he tried to explain it to his yata, he spoke of the fear he saw in the eyes of those young men who knew that death was upon them. Fighting a battle to the death seemed a natural way for a warrior to die. It was the way Lucian’s own father had died. But waiting for death? Knowing the inevitable? That day innocent men died in front of Lucian’s eyes. They died savagely. Some were cut down with a dagger to the gut, others with a blade to the throat. Each time, Donashe of the Citavita asked for the leader. And each time, Rothen swore he was Rafuel of Sebastabol.
“Where is Rafuel of Sebastabol?” Donashe asked when the sixth man lay dying at his feet. Rothe
n dropped to his knees, holding his companion in his arms.
“Forsake me, you bastard gods,” he prayed, “but do not forsake beloved Charyn!” He was cut down within moments.
Beside Lucian, Rafuel wept quietly. “I need to call out their names to the gods. I need to call out their names.”
“Open your mouth and they will kill you next, fool,” Lucian said quietly.
Lucian caught Aldron’s eye, and he could see that the Queen’s guard was shaken by what they had witnessed. Death was death. That it had taken place this close to the Lumateran border would set the kingdom on edge.
“Rafuel?” Tesadora whispered. “What in the name of Sagrami are they doing?” Her expression was a mask of horror and sadness. Lucian watched two of Donashe’s men line the seven bodies up across the edge of the stream.
But it was what the other horsemen were doing that sent an icy finger down Lucian’s spine. Screams were heard as the youngest of the women were dragged to where Donashe stood, then forced to their knees, side by side. Each girl was searched for the sign on the napes of their necks. The sign of the last born, Rafuel explained.
When Donashe failed to find what he was searching for, the girls were pushed away and Lucian heard cries of relief. Until the next girls were pulled from the arms of crying mothers and helpless fathers.
“They’re searching for last-born women,” Rafuel whispered, his voice broken. “Which can only mean that Quintana of Charyn is dead.”
Tesadora gripped Lucian’s arm. “We have to do something.”
Suddenly Rafuel caught his breath, his eyes meeting Lucian’s.
“What?” Lucian asked.
“Phaedra!” Rafuel whispered hoarsely.
“She’ll know to keep her head down,” Lucian said.
“No, you don’t understand. They’re looking for last borns, Lucian. Phaedra is the only last born in this valley. Most other last-born girls are in hiding. Their fathers and mothers knew this day of weeping would come.”
Lucian stared across the stream, searching for Phaedra among the camp dwellers. “Why would Sol of Alonso not have hidden his daughter?” he asked.
Froi of the Exiles Page 35
